The Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: A metal crutch is the key to unlocking this mystery. A cripple who died of natural causes? A wife who might not be telling the truth? Drugs, diamonds, and secret identities challenge the genius of SH and the fortitude of JW.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: The following story is imaginative account of the case of the aluminium crutch that Watson mentions briefly in The Musgrave Ritual (Arthur Conan Doyle).

Many thanks to MadameGiry25 for her suggestions, critiques, and encouragement on this piece. If you're looking for talented, intriguing stories with Holmes and Watson, check out her profile!

All reviews are appreciated – little gems that brighten my day J

**The Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch**

**Chapter 1/4**

"What do you know about aluminium, Watson?" Holmes abruptly paused, his bowstring held midair, as he continued to stare out the front window of our flat. He was dressed in a blue, silk dressing gown that had been his attire for the past two days. Slivers of sunlight filtered into our residence through half drawn blinds against the midday sun and danced across the disorderly piles of newspapers cluttering the floor and sofa. The criminal classes had been depressingly dull in their sinister exploits of late and my flat mate had become increasingly peevish and lax in his habits.

This morning a letter had arrived, after which Holmes had spent the next several hours curled up in the armchair with his favorite pipe, eyelids heavy in self-absorption. Thick clouds of smoke circled his head, mimicking the swirling thought processes that arranged themselves within his mind. He had finally dragged himself out of this languor, and was now scratching on his violin in a manner that was increasingly painful to my ears and trying of my patience.

"Why are you asking me?" I answered with some asperity. "You're the chemist. What can I tell you about aluminium that you don't already know?"

"Aluminium, silvery element found naturally in the solid state; symbol is _Al_; atomic number is 13; atomic weight, 26.9815386; melting point, 660.32 °C (1220.58 °F); and, nonmagnetic. Currently it is worth almost as much as silver."

"Whatever does this have to do with the correspondence you received this morning? You have been brooding over it for hours. Somehow aluminium must play a part in whatever problem the letter stimulated."

"Ha! Watson, your deductions have not led you astray this time. I see you have put to heart some of my little methods of deduction." He set his violin down and perched himself on the edge of his chair, picking up the letter once more, then handing it over to me. "What do you make of it?"

I took the paper that he tossed in my direction. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate if you'd read it aloud. It has sometimes been of use to me to hear you do so."

I began.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I would very much like to ask for your assistance on a little problem of mine. I have heard of your extraordinary power in solving cases that have stumped even our great Scotland Yard. I only pray that your kindness will prevail to look into this simple matter, which can hardly be a match to your more illustrious cases. I will call at one o'clock this afternoon in regards to the missing aluminium crutch of my late, husband, Thomas Crossman. _

_Yours truly,_

_Phoebe Crossman_

As I finished reading this strange request, I shook my head." It strikes me as odd that she writes, 'crutch' singular. Most people have a pair of crutches. And, why is it aluminium? The metal is rather expensive for use in making crutches."

"Yes, those and other questions have crossed my mind, Watson. While we wait, let us refresh our memories on the death of Thomas Crossman. I believe there was a small monograph in yesterday's Times."

I scrambled among the untidy stacks of papers lying round the room and finally found the periodical in question.

_On October 21, 1895, at the morning hour of six o'clock, Thomas Crossman, better known as, Tom the Cripple, was found dead in his bed from apparent natural causes. A post-mortem confirms that it was likely due to an underlying weak heart condition. He leaves behind his wife, Phoebe Crossman. No other family members are known. Funeral is to be held on Friday, October 25, at St. Mary's Church._

"Doesn't really say much," I commented as I tossed the article aside.

"Thankfully, my dear fellow, I believe we will shortly be rewarded with the rest of the story. If I am not mistaken, I hear the tread of our lady upon the stair."

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "A lady wishes to call upon you, Mr. Holmes. Shall I send her up?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

The woman who entered, or rather, glided, into our study was remarkable upon several points. She was quite tall for her gender, measuring almost the same height as myself. She held her body, lean and sinewy, in the most erect posture, broad shoulders and thin neck in perfect alignment. Her face, pale with prominent cheekbones, bespoke of one with a striking beauty that now, though not unattractive, was too sharp and angular. The soft yellow of her simple but not unfashionable dress highlighted her dark blonde hair.

Heavy makeup failed to hide dark hollows around sad, grey eyes, red rimmed from crying that told of her recent troubles. Yet underneath the sadness, her expression revealed an inner strength, a core of fortitude honed through many tribulations.

"Mrs. Crossman, I presume?" Holmes motioned for the lady to seat herself on the sofa as his sharp eyes noted every detail.

"Shall I bring some tea?" Mrs. Hudson queried behind us.

"That would be nice, Mrs. Hudson," I replied.

To which she acknowledged with a nod and tottered off to the kitchen to prepare it.

Our client seated herself with precision and grace in the sofa opposite Holmes and myself. As she removed her gloves, she turned her attention to my friend.

"I must apologize for disturbing you. Really, you must think me a silly goose for consulting you about so trivial a matter as a missing crutch. The police would not concern themselves with it. I didn't know where else to go. Oh! I hope you will help me! I know it's only a tiny thing, but it has such sentimental value to me. It was a constant part of Tom's life, and now, with him gone, it would be like redeeming a small part of him again."

She presented a most pitiful picture of abject despair as she looked up, eyes brimming with tears that threatened to overflow.

"I can make no promises until I have heard the whole story, Mrs. Crossman. I assure you, I do not dismiss a case because it seems trivial at first glance; on the contrary, some of the most complex and rewarding cases appeared absurdly straightforward at their onset. Your arrival has already brought to my mind certain points that strike me as curious. How is it that a professional dancer that abuses amphetamines and has emotional issues with food, gets together with a man such as Thomas Crossman, an uneducated, cripple?"

Mrs. Crossman gave a little gasp. "How do you know all that?"

Ignoring the outburst, Holmes continued, "It is not hard if one observes the details. Your erect posture was obvious as you entered the room. It could mean you have a military background, but more likely, you are a professional athlete. What kind of athlete? Too tall to be a gymnast, not muscular or heavy enough for team sports; therefore, a dancer."

" Your manicured nails, heavy make-up and eyeliner, suggest a professional who is used to working on-stage. Your left knee brace, which you cover with a long dress, and macerated toes, indicate ballet."

" A slight tremor in your hands, in one too young for Parkinson's, is characteristic among those who abuse stimulants. In your case, most likely some derivative of cocaine. Your abnormally thin figure, faint scarring on the dorsum of your right hand, and trace facial puffiness, is distinctive of someone with an eating disorder. Given your profession, it is not a surprise."

Accustomed as I was to the consulting detective's methods, I was still amazed by this brilliant chain of logical reasoning.

Mrs. Crossman sat in silence for a few moments.

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his pale eyes intently focused on her. "Please tell us the full story. Leave nothing out. Take a moment to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential."

Taking a deep breath, she began. "My husband and I, as you have noted, are a strange pair. We met when my troupe was performing in London. Although our different lifestyles have often necessitated extended periods of time apart, we managed. During one of my performances, some time ago, I twisted my ankle. When word of my injury was made public, an admirer, none other than the Prince of Bohemia, sent me this aluminium crutch as a get-well gift.

"Later, after my ankle had healed, we replaced my husband's shabby, wooden stick with my crutch. Since then, he has used it daily to aid him in his ambulation. He is never without it. When he sleeps, the crutch is always next to the bed, within easy reach."

"On Monday, the day before his death, I went to practice at the London Ballet Company. Our practice went late so that I decided to spend the night at my colleague's home nearby. It is not an unusual occurrence and Tom knows not to worry when I must spend the night downtown."

"He seemed in perfectly good spirits and gave no indication of feeling unwell when we parted Monday morning. He was planning on spending the day, as was his custom, at the pawnshop, 'Crossman's and Carter's' at the corner of Regent Street and Conduit Avenue. You can imagine my shock and horror when I received a call from Scotland Yard Tuesday morning informing me of my husband's death. Apparently, his body was found by the maid when she came up to bring him his morning tea."

"I immediately rushed home but there was nothing I could do. No signs of a disturbance were seen. The windows were locked and the police could detect no sign of a forced entry. The only item missing was his crutch. The place where he always kept it, next to the bed, was empty. I looked throughout the house but did not find it."

"That is the whole of the matter, Mr. Holmes. The rest, you have most surely read in the newspaper. The police told me he died of a weak heart. When I informed them about the missing crutch, they wrote it down in their report but I know they will not open an investigation for this minor item."

"You are absolutely sure the crutch is not within the house?" he asked, his fingers twitching on the armrest of his chair.

"Of, course," she replied.

"It may be nothing or it may be everything, but, well, we shall see." Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "Thank you, Mrs. Crossman, for bringing this case to my attention. I will look into the matter. If I should need to ask you any more questions, I will contact you. For now, I would advise you to forget about the problem and focus on the sad duties that now lay before you in making the funeral arrangements."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch**

**Chapter 2/4**

Holmes rose from his chair and walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back in a manner of deep contemplation, signaling the end of the interview with Mrs. Crossman. I handed our client her gloves and escorted her down the steps to a waiting hansom. When I returned, I found Holmes pacing the room, like a foxhound restless and fretful for the chase to begin.

"Watson, I believe our next steps must take us to the Crossman's' residence. If we are lucky, Scotland Yard will not have destroyed every shred of evidence in their fruitless, but zealous investigation."

He stopped his pacing, turned, and strode toward his bedroom with the air of one whose mind is made up. "Ring for a cab," he called over his shoulder, "while I change out of my dressing gown. Perhaps this case will prove worthy of your annals!"

I felt that familiar tingle, an excitement and exhilaration that filled me with joy and pride, as I joined the famous sleuth on yet another adventure.

After a short ride, during which Holmes was utterly silent, we arrived at the designated house. It was a small cottage that shrouded its visitors in an atmosphere of strange loneliness. The brick exterior had withstood the passage of time well. A small yard, surrounded by a few hedges to mark the borders, with a little gravelly path, directed our feet to the front door. A constable, who was familiar with Holmes, allowed us to enter the house.

The furnishings were well built and polished, the drapes and carpet along with the portraits that hung on the wall gave the place a quaint elegance. Traipsing upstairs, we found the bedroom in which Mr. Crossman had been found. It was sparsely furnished in a manner that was convenient for someone who needed assistance to walk. A bureau stood in one corner of the room. A small desk with a mirror for doing one's make-up stood against the wall. On one side of the low-lying bed, was a peg to hold his crutch within easy reach.

With the anticipation of a child unwrapping his birthday present, Holmes enthusiastically began to examine every inch of the place. His eyes picked up the minutest detail. He went over every detail. He tested the windows and examined the locks. He crawled underneath the bed. He looked at the papers on the sideboard. With his magnify glass he peered at the floorboards and walls. He flipped through the clothes in the boudoir and scratched a sample of mud from the dead man's shoes.

When he finished, he gave a little sigh. "I can find nothing that gives us a clue as to the events that occurred in this room on the night of the victim's death. If any nefarious crime has been committed here, the killer has certainly not left behind any trace."

The rest of our examination of the cottage was no more successful.

"It is a strange house, all the same, don't you think so, Watson?" Holmes turned toward me as we rode over to the morgue to examine the body.

"I cannot say anything in particular struck me. It seemed well kept, clean, neat."

"Yes, too neat. When a cripple and a professional dancer live together, one does not expect such a tidy place. It was austere in its furnishings. No pictures of the family or couple hung on the walls. The pantry was practically empty. Given the state of Mr. Crossman's clothes, dirty shoes, and disorganized papers, one can be certain he was not one to worry about cleanliness."

Holmes sprang from the cab as we reached our destination.

A tall, rather pale man with flaxen hair and carrying a notebook met us at the door.

"It is a simple case of heart failure, Mr. Holmes," Detective Inspector Gregson stated with less than his usual energetic demeanor. "I don't know why you insist on poking your nose into his death and stirring up trouble where there is none. The coroner pronounced the time of death between ten and two o'clock in the morning. No bruising or signs of a struggle were evident on his person. His neighbors reported no loud noises or other strange noises on the night of his death."

Thomas Crossman had been a short, small man. His pale skin, made whiter in death, spoke of one who rarely went outdoors. He had a couple days of stubble on his chin and his dark hair was in need of a trim. His left leg twisted in an unnatural angle on the table.

While I looked over the official postmortem report, Holmes was busy walking around and examining the body. While scraping a sample of dirt from under the man's fingernails, he unexpectedly stopped. He picked up his magnifying glass. "Inspector Gregson, what did your people think of this mark, here upon the left side of the neck?"

"What mark?" The Inspector anxiously came round and peered through the glass. A tiny, red, dot marred the ivory skin.

"Well," the Inspector spluttered, "No mention of this was made. However did you find it? It is just a pinprick!"

"I found it, Inspector, because I was looking for it. I would suggest a repeat investigation of the body for any poisonous substances, paying particular attention to the contents of his stomach. And, Inspector, I'd also propose to you that your victim was not lame."

Gregson gasped in surprise. His eyes blinked rapidly and his nose twitched just a little as he stared at Holmes, questions rising into his mind but unable to form themselves into verbal utterances quickly enough.

"Notice the muscles of his legs and the calluses on his feet," Holmes continued.

"But, how does that prove Crossman was not lame?" I queried, trying to catch up with my friend's rapid deductions.

"Observe the symmetric muscle mass of the legs?" He explained. "How can a lame man have equally strong, muscular legs if he only uses one? Look at the soles of his shoes, equally worn down; the same effect is seen in the calluses of his feet. Rather remarkable, don't you think, for a cripple that cannot use his left leg! Taken together, the logical conclusion is that he could use both legs."

"In light of your logical explanation, it seems so simple!"

Holmes gave a wry smile. "It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable because the other has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction. I fear, Watson, that I lose my detective genius when I offer you these little explanations."

Abruptly changing the subject, he turned to me." What do you think about an afternoon of ballet? I believe there is a lovely little performance at the London Ballet Co. today. If we hurry, we can just make it to the performance."

As I've remarked before in my memoirs, my friend possessed a singular ability to partition off the parts of his brain. While he immersed his senses fully in the artistic performance on-stage, a picture of absolute ecstasy, I fidgeted endlessly in my seat, my thoughts wandering back over the facts of the day. "Why would someone want to murder a cripple? Was Mrs. Crossman telling the truth or were there darker secrets?"

The closing melody of the ballade was just fading into sweet memory when my friend arose. "Time to continue the chase," he said quietly.

We went round the stage to the performers' dressing rooms. Using his amazing charm that he could effortlessly don when the occasion suited him, he soon had us backstage. "Ms. Isadora Persano," he addressed a young lady just putting on her coat and hat.

"Yes, but who are you?" she replied in a high-pitched, tinkling, voice.

"We are sorry to disturb you as I'm sure you are tired after you performance. We are here on the request of a friend of yours – a Mrs. Phoebe Crossman." As Holmes spoke, his quick eyes darted around the room.

"Oh!"

"What time did you and Mrs. Crossman leave the building last night?"

"I think it must have been about nine o'clock, maybe a few minutes before as we arrived at my apartment at ten past nine. I remember because I looked at the clock in the hallway when we walked through the front door. I remember thinking how late practice went and how tired I would be in the morning."

"And did Mrs. Crossman stay with you the entire night?"

"Why of course! But why do you ask? Is this about the death of her husband? I hope you are not going around making accusations against her! The newspapers said he died from a weak heart. My Phoebe did not leave my side until that policeman came and brought her the tragic news of his death! She was terribly upset, I could tell."

Holmes nodded and rose up from his seated position on one of the dressing stools. He patted the upset girl on the arm. "Please, do not trouble yourself over this matter. You have been most helpful. Thank you."

He uttered not another word for the rest of the trip back to our flat. Once inside, he settled himself into his favorite armchair; sinking deep in the cushions, he smoked his pipe. His eyelids half closed concealed an intense concentration in his unfathomable brain.

For my part, a vague uneasiness plagued my thoughts. I found it impossible to concentrate on anything and finally gave up and went to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3/4**

I arose at my usual hour but found that Holmes had already breakfasted and gone out. A thick haze of smoke still rested in the study confirming his all night vigil of working and reworking the case, taking apart, putting together, shifting, finding the important facts, and throwing out the distractions. I knew his mind would not stop until the threads wove themselves into a synchronous cord leading to the solution.

Familiar with Holmes's erratic pattern of investigation, I placated myself with reading the various morning periodicals. After a short stroll, during which I mulled the facts of the case over in my mind, I returned once more to an empty flat. I tried to content myself by going over my old case notes. The task was not hard and my patience wore thin as I waited.

The hour was getting late when he burst into the room, a gust of the brisk London air complimenting his own infectious energy. "Watson, my dear fellow! It has not been easy but I feel that the mystery becomes clearer. My little adventure today has illuminated certain informative facts about our case."

His body fairly quivered with suppressed enthusiasm, a complete reversal of the former shell that had lain listlessly on the sofa just a day ago.

"I am anxious to hear everything!" I replied, my own voice barely concealing my mounting curiosity.

"First, I must insist on some sustenance. I have had nothing since this morning, with the result that I find myself craving the hearty cooking of Mrs. Hudson."

When our long-suffering landlady arrived at the door of our study in response to his call, he continued in the deepest sincerity. "Mrs. Hudson, if you could find it in your heart to find us some supper despite this late hour, I would be entirely within your debt."

The kindhearted woman could not bear to refuse such a request. We were shortly contenting ourselves over a fine meal of Ratatouille complimented with cold mutton and freshly baked brown bread.

Holmes dug into his meal with uncharacteristic vigor. After satiating himself somewhat, he paused to enlighten me on his day.

"This morning I determined to see the shop where Mrs. Crossman stated her husband whittled away his hours, _Crossman and Carter's Pawnbrokers_. I had no difficulty locating it, and found it to be a tiny establishment like all other pawnshops of its nature. It was a rather stuffy place with shelves overflowing with a disorderly collection of trinkets, everything from wristwatches and jewelry to pictures and furniture. I found that Carter was not in, but a girl, by the name of Mary, not more than eighteen, was in charge."

A brief moment of introspection crossed his countenance. "She was a most surprising find. Her face was strikingly familiar and, suddenly, it came to my mind that here was a younger version of Mrs. Crossman! The likeness was so striking that I determined to investigate this avenue further. In the process of our conversation, I gathered that she had been working for Carter and Crossman for about a year. Mrs. Crossman, it seems, had found her at the Saint Christopher's Home for Boys and Girls, where she grew up, and offered her the job. She has no idea as to the identity of her birth parents. Apparently she was abandoned on the front steps of a small church in Bristol and brought to the orphanage by the elderly vicar.

He paused for a moment while he buttered a piece of bread. "I also learned that Mr. Carter came in only occasionally to work in the shop, mostly to look over the books and make sure the accounts were in order. Mr. Crossman, on the other hand, came by most days. He didn't concern himself so much with the books, but rather, liked to amuse himself with the trinkets in the store and swap stories with the steady stream of customers that always showed up when he was around. Overall she found her employers tolerable and was looking forward to starting secretarial classes in the evenings with the little pittance she was able to set aside from her salary."

"Following my visit to the pawnshop, I turned my attention to the task of uncovering the true characters of both Mr. and Mrs. Crossman. Were they a happy couple? What were their habits? I looked for anything that might shed light on a case that created more dark and sinister questions than answers."

"I donned a foppish disguise, I do take some pride in the art of disguise, as you know, Watson, and I avoided suspicion among the peculiar people that must aid me in my detective work. I was fortunate enough to learn some interesting details about Mrs. Crossman. Apparently, she is quite well known among the elite of society as being a desirable contact person when one craves mind-altering substances of a stronger nature than alcohol.

Having finished my meal, I eagerly fetched my notebook so that I might record the details of his narration.

Holmes continued. "On the night in question, Mrs. Crossman was seen leaving with her friend, Ms. Isadora Persano, but shortly thereafter a couple of late night party goers are sure they saw her headed to the train station. She could have easily caught the train home and arrived no later than nine thirty.

I nodded in agreement with Holmes' recall of the train schedule.

"Gregson assures me that his constable found her at Ms. Persano's flat in the morning; so, she must have hired a private carriage to travel at a late hour. Although Scotland Yard has its faults, I don't doubt they will be able to find the cab driver and verify her whereabouts precisely on the night of the murder.

Finishing his meal, he rose from the dining table and settled into his armchair. "Several of her comrades also mentioned that Mrs. Crossman had talked of moving away and starting a new life, away from Mr. Crossman. Ms. Persano, who it appears, is closest to her, hinted that she had been trying to cut down on artificial stimulants. Their marriage is regarded as strained, at best. She often spends the night downtown. Indeed, it is a rare sight to see the two people together in the same room. No one seems to remember how the couple met. They seem to have just hooked up, drawn together by their mutual involvement with drugs."

Holmes paused here, in his monologue, alighted off his chair and strode swiftly to the desk. He dispatched a hastily, scribbled telegram and then settled back down by the fireplace, contentedly lighting up his pipe.

He gave a short smile and continued. "I had to disarrange my attire a bit to fit in with the next class of folk I wanted to question. I like to think that a little more tussle to the hair, smudges of dirt on the hands and face, dirty trousers with holes in the knees, and a wrinkled hat, did the trick.

Amongst Thomas Crossman's so called friends; he was known as a slick, squirrely con artist. He was quick to take advantage of the slightest weakness in his opponent. He was ruthless in his pursuits when he wanted something.

His hands clenched into tight fists as he continued his recollections. "He was merciless to those who crossed him. He is a known dealer of cocaine, heroin, and other contraband. Although he has been searched several times by the police, they have never been able to find any illegal substance. As I suspected, the pawnshop is a well known meeting place for his exchanges."

Holmes turned toward me with an air of suppressed excitement. "Watson, all that's left is to examine the collected facts of our endeavors and logically reason backward to deduce the events at the beginning of this case."

Holmes unexpectedly leaned forward, lips pursed, an expression of fierce concentration on his angular face; his fingers strummed the chair arm in rapid staccato.

"Thomas Crossman was a grinch, a grasping, selfish beast who mercilessly, bled his victims dry, then tossed them aside to rot in the ruined remains of their pitiful existence. Mrs. Crossman, or shall we say, Ms. Palmer, her maiden name that I obtained from Inspector Gregson, fell prisoner to Crossman due to her dependence on amphetamines. Maybe he even got her started. Either way, she was now his puppet. He could twist her to abet him however it suited his evil schemes."

"But why lead Ms. Palmer into drug addiction?" I puzzled.

"As the ballerina, she was the perfect ruse to infiltrate and dispense his drugs to stage performers and elite patrons. Her prima donna status allowed her to make contacts with the noble upper class without raising suspicion."

"Now let us suppose, what would happen if she decided she wanted out of it all? We know from her friends that she was thinking about such. She has been plotting her escape for several months. But her departure would ruin Crossman's perfect charade. He couldn't let his muse free without significant personal loss."

As I sat at my desk, pen and paper at my fingertips, I considered our conclusions thus far. "What kept her in his clutches so long?" I asked.

"Ah, Watson, that is a problem I have pondered myself. Was she still enslaved to the shackles of her addiction? Was it economic, lack of capitol to set up a home? Or, maybe, there was a darker, more treacherous chain that kept her under Crossman's control? I am convinced that the crutch holds the answers. If we can find the crutch, we will unlock the mystery of this case!"

A knock on the door interrupted his stream of logical deduction. I opened the door. "Telegram for Mister Holmes, sir!" the page saluted smartly.

Taking the telegram, I handed it to my partner who eagerly tore it open. "Ha! Just as I expected, Watson. The post-mortem found trace amounts of benzodiazepine, the ingredient of sleeping pills, in our victim's stomach. It is another thread in the web of criminal intrigue that we weave. The net grows stronger."

I looked at my notes and scratched my head. "I don't understand, how can a crutch, valuable as aluminium is, be of such interest to Mrs. Cross -, I mean, Ms. Palmer? You say there was no love lost in the relationship; therefore, she was lying when she told us it had sentimental value. Why does she so desperately want it? What part does this presumed daughter play in this case? Who murdered Crossman and why?"

"Excellent question! My dear fellow," Holmes exclaimed. I believe we should begin by talking with Ms. Palmer again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4/4**

All reviews treasured like gems!

* * *

Hardly had I pulled on my coat before I was rushed out of our flat and into the blustery, night air.

A polite, young maid answered Holmes' impatient knock on the Ms. Palmer's front door. She led us into the parlor where we found our client dutifully choosing the flower arrangements for the funeral procession and helping the cook plan the menu for the guests. She wore a dark dress and a black veil shrouded her features.

She gave a slight start when she saw us. "What are you doing here?" She asked with a bewildered pair of eyes staring out from behind her veil. "You startled me. My imagination keeps playing tricks on me and I hear noises and see shadows of nonexistent burglars since the death of Tom."

"We have some questions for you," Holmes said sternly, his gaze fixed on her face. "This time, I advise you to tell the truth, Ms. Palmer! Yes, I know that you were never married to Thomas Crossman. It was simply a convenient disguise for your illegal drug dealings."

"But, how?" she asked in alarm.

"A matter of simple deduction, Madam," Holmes sat down. "Unconsciously, you fiddle with your wedding ring, as if you're not used to it. Therefore, either it is new or you only wear it when the charade of marriage suits you - in your case, more likely the latter. He gave a rueful half smile.

"In your house, there is not a single painting of you and Crossman together - not even a tiny memento of your marriage. The sparse, masculine furnishings merely confirm that this was Mr. Crossman's domain, not yours. In marriage, it is expected, and natural, for the woman to add a 'woman's touch' as I believe it is termed. You have not.

He stretched his arms out and gestured with his hands. "The closets are full of his clothes, not yours. The bathroom has plenty of items for his toilet but hardly any feminine brushes, ribbons, makeup and other little things every woman's must have for her morning routine. Sadly, Ms. Palmer, I fear this place was more a prison than a home to you; and Mr. Crossman was more a slave master than a husband."

"But, we are wasting time and the hour grows late." His mind shifted gears and he growled in disgust.

"Please, if you will be so kind, tell us the truth, and be quick! He sat erect in the adjoining chair and half closed his eyelids with the cool indifference of a machine. His expressionless face concealed the keen, workings of his fantastic mind.

"I must warn you Ms. Palmer, I am aware of most of what you will convey. If you stray from the facts, I shall know." His eyes opened for a brief moment while he looked severely at her.

She was silent for a few moments, and then sighed, "I see that you are swift to observe, Mr. Holmes".

"That is my trade, Madam. It is my business to know what other people don't."

"Yes, I see. About a year ago, my dancing troupe agreed to perform a routine in order to raise money for the orphans of London. We divided the proceeds and made donations to several of the larger orphanages in the city, paying personal visits to each one. It was at one particular orphanage that I received the shock of my life! Among the orphans was a girl, a perfect replica of my younger self!"

"My thoughts immediately went back to that night, one that I will always regret, when I deposited my newborn baby girl on the steps of St. Mary's Cathedral." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair at the memory.

"That was seventeen years ago. I knew this child must be my own. I made discrete inquiries and found she was brought to the orphanage on the date in question from the vicar of the church."

"My first instinct was to rush joyfully back to her and wrap her in my arms, never to let go again. But, then, I became frightened. What would she think? Would she be angry with me for abandoning her? Maybe she'd hate me and never want to see me again? I was ashamed of who I had become – both a drug dealer and addict. So, instead, I arranged for her to work at the pawnshop where she would at least be visible to me on a daily basis."

"It was not enough though. A mother yearns for her child's love, Mr. Holmes! There was an incessant ache for that mother-daughter bond."

She made a sweeping motion with her hands around the room and continued. "I determined to leave my old life of drugs behind and make a new life for myself, away from this place."

"Although the drugs have been harder to give up than I imagined, I believe I would have succeeded except for one thing. Tom guessed the real identity of Mary. I had never told him about my illegitimate daughter, but he could see it in my face, my voice, and the tenderness, which I bestowed on her, that she meant the world to me."

She paused a moment. A bitter venom seeped into her voice. "The evil tyrant! I cursed his soul, God forgive me. He used my care for her to blackmail me. He threatened to have his notorious drug gang kidnap her and force her to choose, as I had, death or drug dealing. What could I do?"

"I needed money. A large sum of money if ever I hoped to escape and flee the country with my daughter. It was the only solution that I could conceive. I knew that Tom kept his most precious possessions in his crutch. It was no ordinary crutch."

She lowered her voice. "It was specially designed with a hollow center to conceal contraband – mostly drugs, but sometimes jewels and other valuables that he dabbled in under the cover up of his pawnshop. A recent jewel heist led to a deal that left Tom hiding them in his crutch until a suitable buyer could be found."

"You must be referring to the theft of Lady Frances Carfax's diamonds," I exclaimed. "I believe I read in the papers that the police caught the suspect, a Vincent Spaulding, but were unable to find the diamonds."

"I won't deny it, I hated Tom and wished him no good will. Yet, it was not in my heart to murder him. I went home on the night of his death, determined to give him a strong dose of sleeping medicine and steal the jewels from him. My friend, Isadora Persano, agreed to be my alibi. The plan was for me to hide until the jewels were sold. Then with the money, Mary and I would travel abroad where we'd be free from the clutches of Tom and his gang."

"I slipped a number of my sleeping pills in Tom's evening nightcap, then I waited. Imagine my horror when I heard the front door forced open and recognized John Clay, Spaulding's confederate, sneaking up the stairs to Tom's room." She gave a shiver at the memory.

"I hid myself under the staircase, in the broom closet, and cracked the door just enough to observe the hallway. I can only guess what events ensued when Clay found Tom. I heard no sounds of a struggle or shouts. In fact, it was eerily quiet. Clay descended the stairs and exited the door empty handed and as silently as he'd entered."

"As soon as I was sure Clay was not coming back, I rushed upstairs. I found Tom dead with no signs of a struggle."

She twisted her hands together and peered anxiously at us. "I swear, I never meant to kill him! The dose of pills that I gave him was not enough to be lethal. I'm sure of it! Yet, there he was, lying quite dead, in bed." She was a picture of complete defeat.

I couldn't help but feel pity for this poor soul who had suffered so much evil in her life. I gave her a sympathetic look and nodded for her to carry on with her account.

"My first thought was to run. My second was more practical and I turned to get the crutch. To my surprise and dismay, I realized the crutch was missing!"

She spun her palms upward and shrugged her shoulders. "There was no way Clay could have concealed such an object when he left, so where was it? Tom always had that crutch with him, even though, as I'm sure you have ascertained, he really didn't need it. He had a deformity of the leg from birth but he was perfectly capable of walking without assistance. The crutch was just a clever prop to conceal his illegal business. She frowned.

"I searched the house. I even hunted for it amongst the bits and pieces in the pawnshop, all to no avail."

"It was about then that I thought of you," she looked at Holmes and blushed. "I knew, if anyone could find it; it would be you."

"Well I appreciate the compliment, you would have saved us both a lot of trouble if you'd told the truth the first time," he replied.

"I could have told you that, although your sleeping pills helped his murderer, it was not your drugs that snuffed out his life. A hypodermic needle was used to inject an undetectable, but fatal, dose of poison that killed him almost instantly, most likely a hypertonic solution of potassium. I'm sure Clay could shed more light on it."

Holmes sat up in his chair. His ardent, alert face, tightening of the lips, quiver of the nostrils, and concentration of the heavy tufted brows, told me that something had stimulated his mind.

"We have the facts of the case before us." He looked to both Ms. Palmer and myself.

"Reason and logic will be the tools to piece the facts of this case together and find the solution to our last question: where is the crutch?"

His eyes narrowed and his face maintained an expression of fervent intensity.

"Crossman would want to keep the diamonds for himself since Spaulding was caught. He knew that Spaulding had a partner with whom he would share the location of the diamonds. Therefore, Thomas Crossman had to hide the gems in a location that neither Clay nor Spaulding, would suspect."

I listened intently to the detective's rapid logical explanations.

"Naturally, they would assume the diamonds were with him in his house. When Clay did not find the crutch, he turned his attention to the pawnshop."

"Ah," I exclaimed. "That explains the break-in the other night."

Holmes nodded. "Possibly he found the crutch but unlikely, since the shadow that scared you last night was likely him, searching for it again. Where else could Mr. Crossman hide a crutch?"

Ms. Palmer and I looked at each other with mutual uncertainty on this point.

"He reportedly stayed in the pawnshop all day and came directly home." Ms. Palmer inclined her head in affirmation.

"He would have to give his crutch to someone else in order to access a new hiding spot. It would have been risky to give it to one of his gang members. They knew of the secret hollow in the crutch and might be tempted to steal it. It would be safer for someone, naive to the secret gems in the crutch, to keep it until things cooled down and he could safely auction off the diamonds without raising Spaulding or Clay's suspicion."

"But whom would he come in contact with who was reliable and unlikely to disappear in the next several months?" I interrupted.

"We are left with either Carter or Mary. It wasn't Carter since he didn't come into the shop on Monday. Therefore our logical train of deduction points us to the only possible answer, Mary. The crutch must be with her. Likely he invented some excuse that necessitated her keeping it tucked quietly away in her home for an indefinite period of time."

"Brilliant!" I spontaneously exclaimed as Holmes came to the close of his deduction.

His eyes twinkled for a moment then assumed a more grave expression while he soberly addressed Ms. Palmer, "I believe that you owe your daughter a visit. We will accompany you to retrieve the crutch and turn it over to the proper authorities."

"Yes, you are right. Let me get my hat and coat while you hail a cab." She rose from her chair.

I need not chronicle the emotional reunion of mother and daughter that occurred upon our arrival at Mary's tiny flat. Suffice to say that Mary held no bitterness toward her mother and the two clasped each other, arm in arm, for a very long time.

Holmes quietly fetched the aluminium crutch standing in the corner with the broom. We closed the door gently behind us and headed to Scotland Yard where Holmes solved not one, but two, cases for Inspector Gregson.

Spaulding was later charged and convicted of the diamond theft and will spend his remaining days in prison.

Clay, after he was captured by Scotland Yard, eventually confessed to the murder of Thomas Crossman when the hypodermic syringe with residual potassium chloride within the chamber, was found in his possession.

Ms. Phoebe Palmer was tried for accessory to murder and illegal drug trafficking. However, under the circumstances, the jury took a lenient view and let her go on probation with a warning never to touch drugs again.

I am happy to report that she has kept to her promise and remained clean. She was able to sell her half of the pawnbroker business to Carter and set up house with Mary near the London Ballet Company, where she now teaches aspiring ballerinas. Mary proved to be an exceedingly efficient secretary and has a bright future ahead of her.

As I came to the close of my narrative, sitting at my desk, the fireplace giving off a soft glow and patiently sending out warm tendrils that kept the autumn chill away, Holmes sat in his armchair, an aura of deep introspection about him, reading the evening Times. Suddenly he laid down the paper and looked at me, a solemn air upon his pale, thin face.

"Watson, what is the meaning of it all? What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever (CARD)."

The End

A/N: A big thanks to all those who reviewed the initial chapters of this case. GoodbyeNemesis, mrspencil, Westron Wynde - you really gave me the encouragement to finish editing this tale! An extra special thank you to MadameGiry25 who helped me with her detailed suggestions, opinions, and kind words of support!


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